Sleep Tight
by TheGameIsOn-Geronimo
Summary: Or "The 5 times Sherlock fell asleep on John and the 1 time John fell asleep too." Sherlock was hardly ever seen sleeping, because while sleeping he felt vulnerable and also it was so hard for him to shut his brain up. But, when John comes into the equation, he starts to find it a lot easier to let unconsciousness take over. Also on AO3


The first time it happened was in a taxi, driving back from a case. Sherlock had worked solidly for three days and clearly his lack of sleep and food was catching up with him. Over those three days, John had watched Sherlock virtually inhale numerous cups of tea and coffee, eat hardly anything and use nicotine patches (much to John's annoyance) just to stay awake and keep his mind working.

Now, with the case solved and his brilliant deductions stated in front of the whole of Scotland Yard, Sherlock's body was shutting down.

The first clue John had noted of Sherlock's exhaustion starting to show was a slight stumble on the way to the cab. Sherlock didn't stumble. He just didn't. So, when he had, John had instantly become more alert.

John glanced to the other side of the cab, where Sherlock was sitting. His head was leaning back and it was clear he was fighting off sleep. His eyelids kept drooping over his eyes, only to snap open again after a few seconds... thirty seconds... one minute.

John watched as Sherlock's breathing became slower and more even. He was just contemplating how utterly strange it was to see Sherlock actually relax, when Sherlock shifted, sliding sideways and falling so he was lying horizontally on the seat, his head on John's lap.

John instantly tensed up, hands hovering above Sherlock's face, wondering if he should leave him or push him off very roughly. Sherlock snuffled slightly, the most innocent sound John had ever heard come out of Sherlock's mouth. Carefully, he laid one hand on his lap and the other on Sherlock's shoulder, letting him get the rest he clearly needed, as he looked out the window, waiting to arrive at Baker Street.

The second time, John was sitting on the sofa. He refused to sit on his own armchair because Sherlock had spilt the mysterious product of an experiment on it. John didn't trust that, whatever it was, was healthy.

John was quietly reading after Sherlock had rushed off earlier to chase down a killer and now he was bored. He wasn't like Sherlock when he was bored – all shoot the wall, insult everyone and get annoyed that the criminal classes weren't doing their job – but it did make him agitated and unable to really concentrate on anything.

He supposed he was also anxious for Sherlock's well-being, whenever he went out alone there was a huge probability that he would come back injured. To be honest, John didn't know how he had coped on his own for so long.

After reading the same page at least 4 times, because his brain wasn't taking in the information at all, he was distracted by the door slamming open.

He looked round to see Sherlock framed in the doorway, his long coat drawn tight around him. He marched forwards into the lounge, frowned at John sitting on the sofa and then proceeded to flop down next to him. He stretched out, moving his head so it was on John's lap and turning his face towards his stomach.

"Sherlock?" John murmured, "What are you doing?"

"Lying on the sofa." Sherlock replied, as if it were obvious.

"Yes. I can see that. Why do you have to lie on me though?"

"You're in the way." He muttered, "And besides," he added, snuggling further into John's jumper, "You're warm and it's cold outside."

"Right." John said, frowning in confusion. "Did you catch the killer?" he asked, trying to change the subject and ignore the flatmate currently lying on him.

The only reply he got was a soft "Mmpf."

"Sherlock?"

He looked down at the man, noting the curve of his cheeks and the paleness of his skin, before realising that Sherlock had fallen asleep.

He sighed, picked up his book again and started to read, feeling a lot calmer now he knew Sherlock was safe.

John stirred slightly as he realised there was someone else in his room. Opening his eyes and blinking rapidly to clear away the blurry edges of sleep that clung to his vision, he spied the World's only consulting detective standing at the end of his bed.

He stretched, sitting up in bed and glancing to the clock on his bedside table – it read 3:00am. What did Sherlock want now?

Deciding to address the problem directly he stated, "You do know that watching someone while they sleep is considered creepy, right? Why are you doing it?"

Sherlock came closer, his face cast in shadow, "I couldn't sleep."

John frowned, not expecting such a confession of weakness from Sherlock. He sat up straighter, "Why not?"

Sherlock shuffled slightly, looking down at his feet. "I had a nightmare."

John looked at him. He'd had his fair share of nightmares after being in the army, but he'd never expected someone like Sherlock to get them.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He offered, "Sometimes that helps. Why did you come in here afterwards anyway?"

In the dim light John could just see colour creep up Sherlock's cheeks, "I needed to make sure you were safe." He answered quietly.

"Oh." John murmured, not really knowing what to say. Did that mean his nightmare had been about him? "Well, I am. Will you be able to go back to bed now?"

Sherlock shuffled again, clearly getting more and more embarrassed, "Could you... um..." he faltered, causing John's eyebrows to raise, "Come into my room?"

John sighed, knowing that Sherlock would only ask something like that if it was really necessary. He pulled himself out from under the covers, "Come on, then." He told Sherlock, pushing him forwards lightly.

Sherlock's eyes looked very shocked, he probably hadn't been expecting John to go through with his request, but seemed happy that he had.

Back in Sherlock's room, Sherlock lay down and pulled the blankets over himself. John lingered beside the bed, before climbing onto it. He sat down next to Sherlock and then pushed himself down so he was propped up on the pillows.

In the darkness, only Sherlock's gleaming eyes were visible, watching John carefully as he wriggled closer and then wrapped his arms round John's torso – seeking the comfort.

John didn't protest, and if he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair as Sherlock slipped off into sleep again, there was nobody there to see it and talk.

"John...J'n...John!"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked patiently from where he was seated next to the clean, white hospital bed.

They had been on a case that had ended with Sherlock chasing a mass-murderer with John right behind. What John hadn't counted on though, was Sherlock, in the rush of the moment, jumping off a fairly high wall only to land badly. John had come to the top of the wall, after hearing a worrying crack, and looked down at where Sherlock was desperately trying to push himself up, while one leg lay limply, at an odd angle on the ground.

John had instantly climbed down and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders to stop him from moving. He ignored Sherlock's pleas of "No, we have to stop the killer," and forcibly told him that he was calling an Ambulance and going to a hospital to fix the obviously broken leg.

Which is how they ended up here, Sherlock propped up in a hospital bed, his skin pale white from pain, and John sitting by his bedside.

"There's...th'rs" he slurred like a drunk, "There's bubbles..."

John glanced up at the ceiling to follow where Sherlock's unfocused eyes were looking, even though he knew he wouldn't see anything. During the setting of the bone, Sherlock had been given a dose of morphine, and to be honest John thought that a drugged-up genius detective was probably one of the funniest things he had ever seen.

"Are there, Sherlock?" he asked, smiling at his friend's dazed look.

"Y'h." Sherlock replied, "Why there bubbles?" he asked suddenly, as if just realizing bubbles in a hospital was a strange occurrence. He turned bleary eyes on John, clearly expecting an honest answer to his question.

"They're magical." John answered, face perfectly composed like he was merely telling someone the weather, but come on, who wouldn't have fun with a stuck-up prat who was now seeing bubbles everywhere?

"Oh." Sherlock said, and nodded enthusiastically like this was a perfectly logical and normal answer. He didn't say anything for a few more minutes, slowly sinking into the fluffy pillows.

John watched as Sherlock's body got limper as the drugs took their full effect and Sherlock's eyelids dropped over his usually assertive gaze.

John carefully reached out, taking Sherlock's hand with his own and rubbing his calloused thumb over the smooth skin on the back of Sherlock's long-fingered hand.

"It's okay, Sherlock." He whispered quietly, "Just sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

John answered his mobile to hear the voice of Greg Lestrade on the other end, "John?"

"Greg, hey how are you? Aren't you on that case? I thought Sherlock was coming to do some work for it today?"

"Yeah he did," Greg answered slowly, and John felt a coil of dread settle in his stomach, "We just, um... need you to come and take him home."

"Why?" John asked sharply, already moving out of his armchair to grab his coat and keys.

"Well, he's kind of..."

"Just say it Greg, I've seen him do completely idiotic things, nothing will surprise me."

"He's asleep in my office."

Oh. That was not what he'd been expecting. In fact, John had been expecting maybe that Sherlock had torn everyone apart with harsh words and needed to be taken away before someone killed him, or perhaps that he had hurt himself by spilling a cup of coffee over himself again (it had only happened once, but the noise Sherlock had made when the scalding liquid had hit his skin had been priceless.)

"Okay, I'm on my way, but you do realise I'm not Sherlock's handler, you should just be able to wake him up and kick him out yourself."

All he received on the other end was a low chuckle, as if Greg did not believe that Sherlock wasn't John's responsibility.

John arrived at Scotland Yard in record time, mainly because – although he would never admit it to anyone – he was worried, because Sherlock never fell asleep in front of people, unless it was himself, and he had been looking really tired lately, so clearly something was wrong.

John went up the lift, and emerged on Lestrade's floor, marching purposely past all the Police Officers giving him strange looks. He found Lestrade pacing outside his office, occasionally glancing through the glass door to look at Sherlock, bent forwards with his head on his folded arms on the desk, and mouth open in sleep.

"He won't bite you, you know." John said from behind him, causing Lestrade to stop his pacing and turn to him.

"I wouldn't put it past him." Lestrade replied, "Besides I don't want him to start drooling on my desk, because that would be gross. So can you get rid of him please?"

John sighed, "Fine. But if this ever happens again, I'm leaving you to sort it out. You're a bloody Police Detective, for God's Sake; you should be able to cope with an over-tired man."

"Sherlock isn't just any over-tired man, though." Lestrade pointed out, "He might try and kill people who try and wake him up, for all I know."

John didn't comment on that, merely raised his eyebrows at Greg, before moving into the office.

"Sherlock." He said quietly as he approached, resting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and giving them a small shake, "Sherlock, come on, wake up."

"umpf..." Sherlock groaned, burying his head further into his arms.

John shook slightly harder, "Sherlock."

"John?" Sherlock asked, eyes barely open, still half asleep.

"Yeah it's me, Sherlock." John replied calmly as he carefully pulled Sherlock up onto his feet and started half leading, half dragging him out of the office, "Come on, let's get you home."

"Sherlock, you can't sleep on the sofa, come on get up." John commanded from the middle of the living room, reaching forwards to use physical force to get Sherlock to his own bed if necessary.

"No." Sherlock said defiantly, arms crossed, "I don't want to sleep in my own room, I will sleep here."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, he was tired and wanted to go to his own room, "Why don't you want to sleep in your room?" he asked slowly.

Sherlock pouted, shifting slightly like he was embarrassed, "It's lonely." He mumbled, barely audible, but attentive John heard it clearly.

"Lonely?" he repeated, frowning, "Okay well..." he paused, was he really about the suggest this? "Why don't you come up to my room to sleep?"

Sherlock was instantly alert and sitting up, eyes fixed astutely on John, "You're sleeping there." He stated.

"I know, but..." he shuffled his feet slightly, "It's a double, there's plenty of room..." he trailed off.

"Okay then." Sherlock said, standing up and moving towards the stairs.

John's eyes widened, "What? Really?"

"Yes, John. Having your company while sleeping may be... beneficial to me." Then he ducked his head, and proceeded to climb the stairs.

John stood dumbstruck for a minute, before following. He found Sherlock already sitting on the bed, dressing gown removed and folded neatly on the chair in the corner. He was biting his lip like he was nervous, but Sherlock never got nervous for anything, right?

John approached the other side of the bed, sliding under the duvet and lying there awkwardly, determinedly not watching Sherlock as he climbed under the covers too.

They lay there for a few minutes, the only sound their quiet breathing, but John could hear his own frenzied heartbeat in his ears. Then something warm touched his bare arm. He jerked away almost instinctively, before realizing it was Sherlock's hand. He turned his head to find Sherlock's bright blue eyes staring into his, his forehead creased in concentration as he reached out again and carefully took John's arm.

John's heart missed a beat, as Sherlock tugged on his arm slightly, offering him a choice as to what to do. He didn't need long to decide, how long had it been since they started dancing around and avoiding the thing that had been growing between them?

He rolled over to Sherlock, pressing his chest to Sherlock's and wrapping his arms around his bony waist. He buried his head into Sherlock neck, feeling his sharp chin dig into the top of his head slightly.

Sherlock seemed frozen for a second, but then he drew his arms around John's frame, rubbing his nose in John's hair and intertwining their legs together.

John clung on desperately, never wanting this moment to be forgotten. He could feel Sherlock's heartbeat through his chest, feel the sharp angles that felt so familiar to him and feel the warmth radiating off Sherlock's skin.

The first time they fell asleep together, they were locked in a tight embrace and each of them fell in blissful unconsciousness with the scent of the other strong in their nostrils, promising never to let go.


End file.
